Trials of a Warrior
by TMNT Redneck
Summary: Martin has hung up his sword. But warriors haven't a place in peace, and Martin is on the verge of a breakdown. The family of Mousethieves are his rock.


Martin had hung up his sword. But being a Brother to the Abbey was quite the challenge for a warrior spirit such as himself. Many nights he lay awake, longing for those days- those crisp, clean nights of patrolling the Abbey grounds, sword at his side. The days before he took the habit- the habit that left him feeling naked and exposed, feeling vulnerable. On the days that Martin felt his weakest, he packed a lunch and went to visit Gonff. The mousethief had ways of easing his tension, and Columbine sure could make a mouse feel welcome. Little Gonflet had taken to calling him 'Unc Mar'in'. The mousebabe never understood why his 'uncle' would be so twitchy when he arrived, or why his mind would stray so often. He knew just that the warrior was quite the playmate. Martin would hoist little Gonflet up onto his broad shoulders, and would jog all over with the little one screaming and pulling at his headfur- urging him to turn this way and that, or run faster. This helped Martin, in a way. After a day of entertaining the little terror, he hadn't the energy to worry- hadn't the energy to remember. He would sleep, and it would be a deep, dreamless sleep that always left him feeling more relaxed when he woke.

Martin rarely went a fortnight without making his way to St. Ninian's at least once. This was one of those visits. He strolled easily, trying not to think, trying only to reach his destination and blur out the rest of the world in the meantime. His footpaws kicked up small clouds of dirt, which were carried away on the autumn wind. Mossflower was all but silent, the wind whistling through the trees being the only sound to break the monotony. Occasionally a bird would chirp, or a twig would snap deep in the forest. But there were no challenges to face, no tyrant to conquer. Just peace. Blissful, quiet, nerve-wracking peace. Martin was supposed to be happy with it- he was supposed to be relaxed and content.

The church came into view, and Martin's nerves snapped. He took off at a sprint toward his friends' home, fighting back tears of stress. Tripping over his footpaws and lifting his tail to keep it from dragging, Martin ran doggedly onward, though the church was still a good mile and a half away. Martin hadn't run so hard in seasons. The feeling was exhilerating; scenery flashing by, wind ruffling his ears and headfur, and his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Martin didn't slow down for anything- he stumbled once over a crag in the path, and again when one footpaw got too close to the other, and when he at last neared St. Ninian's, he didn't stop to knock. Whatever wind he still had was knocked out of him in a whoosh when his body met with the solid wood door. Breathing raggedly, Martin collapsed, sobbing for air and clutching his ears close to the sides of his face. Hoarse whimpers drifted into the cool air, and had he the wind, the ex-warrior would have screamed.

The door of the church opened almost silently, and gentle paws lifted him carefully and carried him in. After depositing the frazzled mouse on the bed that'd become his over the past seasons, Gonff and Columbine looked at each other sadly. The way Martin had been showing up lately broke their hearts. Gonff gathered his wife in his arms and held her close as they watched their friend gain his wind. He felt the wetness of her tears on his tunic. With a brief kiss to the top of her head, Gonff released her. The mousewife set about preparing dinner.

"G-Gonff," Martin rasped from the bed. Gonff kneeled by his friend, listening closely for the faintness of the warrior's words. "Water, Gonff... Water."

"Just a moment, mate," Gonff said, pouring a cup of water from a pitcher their table. They knew Martin would come. "Here you go, mate. Drink slow now. Easy, easy does it."

Columbine watched her husband as he gently cradled his friend's head in his paws, and gently poured the water down Martin's throat. Her ears flicked when she caught the sound of tiny pawsteps. Gonflet yawned, rubbing his eyes with a tiny paw as he perched himself at the foot of Martin's bed.

"'S Unc Ma'tin sick again, Mama?" the mousebabe asked.

"Yes, Gonflet," Columbine said, striding over to the bed and picking up her young son. The babe leaned on his mother's shoulder as she returned to her cooking. She let him take a tiny sip of the soup she'd been stirring and bounced him a bit on her hip as she set a tray of mushroom pasties out on a windowsill to cool a bit.

"I can't do it, mate," Martin gasped, sputtering and coughing in exhaustion. "Can't do it..."

Gonff wet a kerchief in the leftover water and dabbed at Martin's forehead as if he were a babe, gently washing away the dirt and tears from his friend's face. He made soft cooing noises in the back of his throat as Martin struggled with the neckline of his habit.

"Please, Gonff," fresh tears were streaming down Martin's face now; tears of anguish, exhaustion, and frustration.

"Sh, sh, matey. I know, I know. Calm down, Martin. We're all here. We'll all help you, mate. But you've got to settle down," Gonff murmured.

Gonflet looked at his mother, who was tossing a salad with her free paw. He slid to the floor, letting Columbine use both paws.

"What can't Unc do, Mama?" he asked, cocking his head to one side as he studied the pattern on Columbine's dress.

Columbine just shook her head, telling him that he shouldn't worry- that Uncle Martin would be fine in just a little bit and he might even be able to play. On the inside, the mousewife was worried- terribly worried for the shaking mass that was laying just a few strides away. When the young mouse tried tugging on her skirt tail again, she put her paws on her hips.

"Now, Gonflet- you be quiet now and let me cook. Uncle Martin'll need something good to eat if he's to be well enough to play with you. Why don't you go and sit on the other side of Martin's bed?"

The mouse nodded in defeat- ordinarily he'd be pestering and getting underpaw- snitching samples of this and that and generally causing trouble. But Martin's hardships over the past seasons had spread a sort of melancholy over the family. Gonflet pulled himself up onto the bed and watched his father and 'uncle', sucking on his right paw. Gonff got Martin out of his habit and helped him into a loose-fitting tunic. The befrazzled ex-warrior lay staring at the ceiling. Gonflet crawled on his knees closer to the older mouse and sat down right beside him, fiddling with the claws on his footpaws.

"Are you'm okay, Unc Ma'tin?" he asked in a small voice. Martin's eyes cut across to him but his head didn't move. "Mama says you're sick."

Martin smiled. "Never been better."

And so the cycle was repeated. Martin sat up, rubbing his head with a tired paw. He paused only a brief moment and let a wave of dizziness come and go. Then, paw in paw, the older mouse led the younger outside. Martin let Gonflet choose what games to play, how long to play them, and how the game was supposed to go. They played out there for hours in the forest and on the path close to the church. When dinner was ready, they went in and ate and Martin and Gonff would relive old adventures. After a few days' stay, martin made his way back to the Abbey. And inevitably found his way back.


End file.
